Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  “Mrs. Lotterby, I may not be so worldly as some other ladies about this town, but I am not naive. Just because I don’t indulge, doesn’t mean I am completely unaware of sin and debauchery. I have no doubt you mean Arthur Wakely has been making suppositions about me.”

  “He does tend not to approve of you, Miss Robbins.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Molly raised her voice to shout so that the man listening beneath the floorboards would hear clearly. “Rest assured, I don’t approve of him either.”

  Somewhere below them a door slammed.

  When Mrs. Lotterby laughed, her entire body shook with the tremors of her merriment. “I’ve seen it all before, you know. With my sister.” She jerked her head in the direction of Mrs. Bathurst’s room across the landing. “Scarlet isn’t a bold enough color for my sister’s past, let me tell you. Has she shown you her magpie’s nest of trinkets? She hides it all away, keeps it close, as if ghosts from her past can save her from the harsh realities of the here and now.” Despite the grim subject matter, still her tone was jovial and uncomplaining, the voice of one who accepted her lot in life but had time yet to worry about those who hadn’t found theirs. “That’s what happens to a woman who lets herself be used and thrown away. One misstep can ruin, forever, her chance of a respectable life and a good marriage. But would my sister be told? No indeed. Now all those fine gentlemen she once knew have gone, and she takes her comfort from laudanum and her pleasure from cursing at the bailiffs.”

  “She told me of her son, Mrs. Lotterby. It troubled her greatly, I’m sure, to give him up all those years ago.”

  The landlady had been about to sip from her cup, but the handle slipped from her finger. She looked up, blinking rapidly. “Gracious, she hasn’t spoke a word about him in years. What made her bring that up again? When did she…see…?” Mrs. Lotterby twitched her head as if she was too irritated to shake it properly. “You must not pay heed to all she says, Miss Robbins. My sister lives in a world of her own fancy.”

  “But it was true she had a child?”

  “Indeed. Poor little bastard. She could do nothing for it and came to me for help. I was not married then and saw no prospect of it, being only fifteen, plain and poor, or I would have taken the child in myself and raised him as my own. But we did what was best for him. The only alternative.”

  “The workhouse?” Her heart chilled at the sound of the word.

  Mrs. Lotterby was silent for a moment, her gaze falling on one of the little wooden boxes that her sister had given to Molly. Finally she answered, “It was the only thing to be done.”

  “I’m sorry for her.”

  “My sister was always a dreadful romantic. She imagined herself in love, but he was a rake. You know how those gentlemen are. He scarce thought of her again afterward, when it was all over and done and he’d had what he wanted.”

  Molly stirred her chocolate. Not keen to discuss gentlemen rakes, she said, “Your sister fears the duns will come and steal away all her possessions. Is her debt so very great?”

  “My dear Miss Robbins, we are all in a state of debt,” the landlady exclaimed. “One cannot get out of bed in the morning these days without incurring a debt. But that is no excuse to forget pride and dignity.”

  “Of course.” She couldn’t agree more.

  “I know how such a handsome gentleman, as were here last night, can steal his way into a young girl’s heart and more besides.” The lady shook her lace-capped head, arched her little finger, and sipped her chocolate. “It happens all too oft, my dear. All too oft. I would never presume to interfere, and passion leads us all down a treacherous path from time to time. My sister has suffered ill luck, but she has also been prone to bad choices. The best I can do is advise you, my dear Miss Robbins, to take care. While you’re under my roof, I promised that nice Mr. Hobbs to look after you, and so I shall. Always look about you with both eyes open and keep your head on straight.”

  Mrs. Lotterby’s words were a timely warning. Molly settled her worried gaze on the unfinished designs laid out on her table. After Carver’s kiss last night, her thoughts were too scattered for work, forcing Molly to set the sketches aside. Not a stitch had been sewn this morning, for she’d been daydreaming out of her window and thinking about his amendments to their contract. She’d lost valuable time, thanks to improper behavior. Not just his either. How quickly she had fallen into wickedness, let her sinful yearnings take control. It was a blow to her pride. She was no better than Fanny Tucker, a dairymaid back home in Sydney Dovedale, who was said to let any man kiss her behind the haystacks for a penny.

  Mrs. Lotterby peered above the rim of her cup and said cautiously, “I meant no offense, Miss Robbins, only to warn you in a gentle way. I hope I put it rightly.”

  Molly managed a smile. “You did, madam. I quite understand your concern.”

  “I’m sure you’re far too wise in any case. Not like my poor sister, who fell at the first charming smile. She never had many wits about her.”

  They enjoyed their chocolate together and spoke no more on the matter of Carver’s late-night visit, but her connection to the noble Danforthe family was evidently a point of curiosity for Mrs. Lotterby, as it was for some of Molly’s clients, who poked slyly at her for tidbits of information. Which she never gave. The earl’s appearance at her lodgings in the small hours would only add kindling to the fire, but rumors of that nature didn’t bother him. He was not the one who had anything to lose from the speculation.

  Once Mrs. Lotterby had gone, she poured water into her washbasin and, with a great sense of sad ceremony, Molly scrubbed the remaining charcoal smudges from her hand.

  ***

  “But, my lord, I do not have any nieces,” Edward Hobbs exclaimed, peering quizzically through his round spectacles.

  “Hobbs, my good man, I am well aware of this.”

  “Then, how—”

  “You are about to acquire two nieces.” Carver had woken that day with an idea. Since it didn’t happen often, he’d decided to make the most of it immediately and ridden straight to Bishopsgate to find the family solicitor in his cluttered office. He must do all in his power to take away all Molly’s other troubles and leave her free to have only one. Him. “You will find two able seamstresses and send them to Miss Robbins to assist her.”

  This made Hobbs sit up straight and remove his spectacles. “Miss Robbins? The lady’s maid?”

  “That’s right. You will make up some tale.” Carver waved his hat about. “Tell her your nieces are visiting from the country and they require experience—an apprenticeship of some sort.”

  “I thought we were done helping the lady’s maid, my lord? Was she not declared to be an ingrate of the highest magnitude?”

  “Yes, but I’m willing to overlook it.” He was surprisingly willing to overlook a vast deal in her case. He’d let her speak to him in ways no other woman dared, except his sister, but he liked seeing her smile as she did last night. The sweet timbre of her rare laughter still tickled his nerve endings this morning.

  Each time he looked at her now, he discovered something new. Like a rose, she blossomed, her petals opening, releasing sweet, soft damask perfume and revealing an exquisite blush-pink center that he wanted to claim for his eyes only. Never the possessive sort before, Carver now had this unconquerable idea that she belonged to him.

  He sincerely hoped his kiss had given her something else to mull over before she made a mistake with her artist friend.

  Halting sharply, he stared at the wall, thinking of that kiss. Her lips were incredibly soft, her tongue timid. There was a vulnerability underneath that melancholy exterior. Something warm, preciously guarded, a little spark of naughtiness shining through the dolorous piety. But she was a maid still, he was certain of it. Thank god.

  He resumed his circling patrol of the solicitor’s office. “What she needs is a better place to live. Finer accommodations, where she can have a separate workroom. A little shop front perhaps. That house you found
for her is damp and unhealthy.”

  “It is no worse, my lord, than many places in which the London masses—myself included—must live.”

  “But she’s so slight of build. And not long recovered from a cold.”

  “Are you quite well, my lord?” the solicitor inquired. “You seem a little lively for this early hour, and…contemplative.”

  He stopped again. Yes, he was feeling remarkably awake and alive this morning. Determined too. Perhaps there was magic in Margaret’s lips, as well as her sewing fingers.

  “I will look into the acquisition of these nieces, my lord,” said Hobbs gravely.

  “Excellent.” He could rely on Edward Hobbs to get things done. “By the by, have you had any word from my sister?” Mercy, he knew, relied on Hobbs as much as he did.

  “Just a short note to assure me she is in fine health, my lord.”

  Carver nodded. His sister was evidently happy in the country, enjoying her stay. Her latest letter to him, apart from another brief, terse lecture about his possible interference in Molly Robbins’s decision not to be married, was full of merry news about the Hartleys. Nothing too serious or solemn, everything light and benign. She claimed to have undertaken several matchmaking missions there, and he knew his sister liked nothing more than matchmaking. She was a terrifying romantic. Although, oddly enough, she had embarked on her own engagement to the Viscount Grey with dreary practical considerations and not the even the most meager of romantic illusions.

  “Demanding that she return to London,” said Hobbs quietly, “would probably make her stay away longer, my lord.”

  “Quite so.”

  “But I do fear we might have a problem with Viscount Grey when he returns from Italy.”

  “Grey? If he cannot manage my sister and her ways, I would suggest he find another, much more dull and predictable woman to marry. He’s destined for a life of disappointment if he thinks to wear the breeches in a union with Lady Mercy.”

  He didn’t want his sister throwing herself away on a man like Grey. Marriage was a dreadful, permanent thing, as he’d commented to her several times in an effort to make it sink in. Marriage wasn’t a game. It was the end of all games.

  In the country, perhaps, she would have her awakening.

  And if she chose to stay there with Rafe Hartley? A few months ago he would have been horrified at the thought, but Margaret Robbins seemed resigned to it, and her gentle words of tolerance echoed through his mind today. She was not in love with Rafe, and she was not angry with Mercy. She wanted only their happiness. It was a vast relief to hear. Carver would not want her to suffer a broken heart because of his sister’s antics. Or over that foolhardy farmer.

  I would say good luck to them, your lordship. Life is short and pleasure hard to come by.

  Everything sounded simple and sensible when she said it. Her words were never knotted up and complicated with false bluster. She spoke from her heart, always, even when angry.

  “’Tis a pity, my lord, that you did not go into the country with Lady Mercy, as I advised,” said Hobbs quietly. “I wonder why you did not.”

  Carver smoothed a fallen lock of hair from his brow. “I don’t like weddings, Hobbs. You know that.”

  The little man nodded. “I daresay you would have liked that one even less than most. Had it taken place.”

  On his way out of the office, Carver paused and frowned over his shoulder.

  Edward Hobbs looked down at his papers. “I mean to say, my lord, Miss Robbins has become—”

  “I knew what you meant, Hobbs, and you are right. I chose not to attend the wedding because I didn’t care to watch Miss Robbins make a permanent mistake with her life. That’s all.”

  “Of course, my lord, to suggest there was anything more than that involved in your decision to stay away would be quite absurd.”

  Carver stared hard at the other man, who carefully avoided his gaze. “Yes. It would.”

  “She is merely a former lady’s maid.”

  “Indeed.”

  “A young lady you dismissed many times as plain, and perhaps even sinister in her manner.”

  “There is something troubling you, Hobbs?”

  “Not at all, my lord. Nothing troubles me.”

  When Carver finally walked out and closed the office door, he heard his family’s solicitor whistling an extremely merry tune. It was the first time he’d ever heard Hobbs whistle. Clearly the man was feverish, or drinking too much too early in the day.

  Twelve

  Please do not let him be here.

  Molly was not sure which deity she prayed to. Was there a patron saint of seamstresses, she wondered?

  For the concert at Vauxhall Gardens, she wore a muslin gown of robin’s egg-blue with a matching pelisse. It was simply cut, as were all her clothes, but Frederick Dawes had agreed the color was especially flattering, and the raised diamond pattern on the sleeves and bodice, while not too evident in daylight, would be picked out by the gas lamps in the park and give the material an added luster.

  “You look very pretty tonight, Miss Robbins,” Lady Anne exclaimed, bubbling over with excitement as they left the carriage and walked to the grove between the pavilion and the orchestra.

  Molly took this with a pinch of salt, since her young companion scarcely focused on one thing for more than a few seconds and seemed to think most things were “pretty.”

  “And what lovely pearls!”

  “They were a gift from Lady Mercy Danforthe,” she replied, raising a hand to touch the small earrings she wore tonight and then the single row of pearls at her throat. She’d never had an opportunity to wear them before and was still getting accustomed to them. But already her companion was chatting to Fred and looking elsewhere, the pearls forgotten.

  They walked up a double flight of stone steps to the stately pillars of the pavilion. Molly barely had time to take in the colorful scene and admire the passing array of fashionable gowns before Lady Anne, craning her neck, gripped her by the elbow and said, “Let us walk this way,” and dragged her down again at a very purposeful pace. Molly would have preferred to stand a while and simply enjoy the parade of fashion, but her companion could not be still, of course, and Frederick went willingly with her bidding.

  Molly began to wonder what the young lady was up to. Lady Anne was clearly on the lookout for someone. It would explain her reticence to be escorted by her brother or her governess.

  Their feet crunched along a winding gravel walk, taking them away from the orchestra and onto a path lined by lofty trees that formed an arch overhead. Through them the gas lamps cast an intermittent, lazy glow, and Molly saw couples dawdling along, moving in and out of the shadows.

  “I think we should go back to the pavilion,” she muttered, trying to retrieve her arm from Lady Anne’s. “Miss Forde is surely soon to sing.”

  “But there is an obelisk in the meadow beyond, Miss Robbins. We cannot come to Vauxhall Gardens without seeing it. Surely, Mr. Dawes, you will agree.”

  And then a heavier footfall joined them on the narrow, gravel lane, and they both spun around.

  “Danforthe!”

  “Lady Anne, I thought I recognized that bouncing, clumsy gait.” His eyes did not immediately go to Molly. He smiled for Lady Anne. “Does your brother know you’re rambling freely about, unleashed?”

  The girl stuck out her small chin. “Yes. He said I could come if I had a chaperone, and since you recommended Miss Robbins to us in the first place, he trusts her. He said you have a very great opinion of Miss Robbins.”

  Carver’s smile widened. “Don’t tell her that. It will only go to her head.”

  Molly wondered how old one had to be not to suffer blushes, and she wished that year was beyond her now, even if it meant her hair would be gray. She’d always known he must have sent Lady Anne to her as a customer, but to have it confirmed at the top of the girl’s lungs and see Fred’s knowing grin from the corner of her eye was almost more than she could bear.


  She felt duped by Lady Anne, who had flattered her into thinking she was wanted there for her companionship. Now her thoughts were thrown up in the air like a handful of jacks.

  Introduced to Frederick, Carver shot the younger man a brief glance of disdain and sighed. “I thought your latest pet artist was that wet fellow with the red hair and weak chin, Lady Anne.”

  She giggled. “Oh, Danforthe, that was Miles…poor Miles.” She put a finger to her lips and gazed into the distance for a moment. “He was very sweet, but not nearly as talented as he thought. I’m afraid his knees were much too knobbly.”

  “Ah.”

  “He also had sweaty palms.”

  “Tragic.”

  “It was! Mr. Dawes, do walk with me. I should love to hear your opinion of these statues up ahead.”

  Thus Molly was suddenly the object of Carver’s stern appraisal as he held out his arm. “Walk with me, Miss Robbins. It seems we are both superfluous to the people with whom we came.”

  She squinted down the path to see whom he might have come there with, but the crowd was a blur in that muted light, and she could not recognize any faces. Her eyes were strained by sewing for so many hours, and she had not realized how badly they deteriorated until now. Carver, she thought glumly, would always be recognizable. Even if she was blind, she would know him if he approached. Her skin prickled at the sound of his deep voice.

  “I must stay with Lady Anne,” she replied firmly.

  He nodded. “We’ll both stay with Lady Anne. To watch her morals.” Molly looked askance and saw his tongue bulge against his cheek.

  The lady in question had already skipped on ahead, dragging Fred with her, so Molly had no choice but to walk with the scandalous menace. “I had no idea Lady Anne Rothespur was a patron of the arts.”

  “She’s not,” he replied. “She’s a collector of pretty things and of pretty young men to adore her.”